


bombardment

by heartofstanding



Series: Something Beneath The Floorboards [2]
Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Annie is a vampire, Flashbacks to war, Gen, George is still a werewolf, Ghosts, Mitchell is the ghost of a WWI soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-28 05:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17781122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Mitchell struggles to keep the past (the war) in the past. ('Something Beneath The Floorboards'-verse).





	bombardment

He's sitting on the living room, back against the sofa, staring at his knees. He tries to focus, to push his mind on the floorboards, the worn rug beneath his boots. But his mind is elsewhere, a pit of mud and hell, the endless noise ringing in his ears, the wastes of death stretching on forever. The terror inside of him will never go away, the sound of the distant radio won't deafen his ears to the past and when he swallows, he tastes the bitter gal of failure and nearly chokes on the mud in his throat.

Footsteps sound, moving closer to him, and it's wrong, the way they sound. Like slippers on floorboards, not boots stuck in the mud. His body tenses, looking for a way forward or back, something to protect himself with, but there's no gun, no knife, no grenade, only the distant trembling of the ground beneath shelling.

'Oh!' says a voice, bright and female and he tears his eyes away from the old rug to the source of that voice, 'Mitchell! Hi! I didn't see you there...'

Annie. Her name is Annie and she's smiling at him hesitantly, as if half-afraid of his reaction and all he can do is blink at her, try to work out why he knows her name, why she's here, in a field in France. He blinks again. No. The war's over, he's dead, he's safe, safe at home, and Annie lives with him, and George is here, and the year is 2009. He's been dead for ninety-two years, and if he's dead, he's out of the worst of it. He's safe and he doesn't have to worry about being brave anymore.

'I was about to watch the morning news,' Annie says, voice quietening, dulling, 'Do you mind if I—'

She gestures at the TV remote and he nods, his movements coming jerkily, too quickly, slipping out of her way like smoke, and she flicks the TV on with one easy movement. He closes his eyes, tries to gather himself up. But she's still talking to him, her voice layering over the exuberant voices bursting out of the TV, and her words mean nothing, and George is coming down the stairs, singing to himself and—

When did this house get so loud? There is no place in it for silence. Even when he's lying in the dark cellar, even when he's lying on the attic floor, he's surrounded by the noise. And it's good, in a way, because this house has been silent for so long. But there's just too much of it now and he can't rest, the noise keeping him wandering the rooms, going up and down the stairs seven hundred times a day.

—and George is moving in the kitchen, clattering bowls and fry-pans and Mitchell squeezes his eyes shut, remembers three men in ragged uniforms, blood-stained and laughing nervously, eyes on the target they'll never reach.

'Mitchell!' someone shouts and it's his old captain.

'Mitchell!' someone shouts and it's George.

'What?' he says, the word fighting its way out between his clenched teeth.

Captain says he's got to get the men ready, George asks what seedlings he should buy. There's a garden he's cleared, that needs to be planted. It's time for the big push, it's time to go die, and there's nothing he can do to stop it, to get away from it.

Annie's still talking, there's something on the news about a war, but it's not his, and Captain's face is grim and dirt-smeared and they're up to their boots in it, and someone's touching his shoulder, stroking his hair, telling him, _shush, shush_ , and Hegarty's fingers grasp his, knuckles white, young eyes frightened, and Hanley's saying things like _come on, we'll be drinking the Kaiser's wine yet!_ and he can't be quiet, there's so much he's got to do. Give the orders, fix his bayonet and ready himself. It's time.

But it's over, the war's over, and he's at home, safe and dead, and George and Annie are arguing over his head, this endless parade of noise, and he needs it to stop. Needs to get away. Somewhere quiet and still, a place full of _shush_ , somewhere where he can close his eyes and rest for a time.

Eyes squeezing shut, he forces himself away from the house, away from the trenches. Somewhere quiet.

+

He ends up in an old cottage, burnt out and empty-eyed. The roof is gone, the glass is gone, and only the walls remain, pale bricks stacked together. Outside, the once-neat, once-bright gardens are overgrown, strangled by dull-coloured weeds. He lies on the ground and stares up at the sky, bright blue with faint smears of clouds. Focuses on his breathing. In and out.

(isn't it funny how it calms him when he doesn't even need to breathe?)

In and out.

Pete built this place, after the news came, after their da died, because he couldn't abide the old house, the memories like a flicker of light in the corner of his eyes that vanished as soon as he looked. Mitchell followed, for a time, but Pete didn't wait long before he was moving again, leaving these lands, and (unknowingly) Mitchell, behind.

Mitchell opens his mouth, breathes in the fresh, free air, and knows he's safe, knows he's found the quiet he's looking for. He's not going back. He's not ready to go back. Not yet.

+

He cannot leave the cottage. The rooms feel so small, the windows so large, staring out into the wilderness, the clumps of trees and mountains. He stands by the windows and looks out at the world and he knows he's safe, knows he's being stupid and weak, but he can't bring himself to leave. This isn't home. He wants to go home, to curl up in the attic and let the noise wash in around him, but he cannot leave.

By night, he wanders these empty rooms, stares up at the stars and tries to find his way home, but when he reaches a doorway to the world outside, he can't leave. Nothing outside, nothing new, not even the new friends he has made, can chase away the loneliness that crawls through him. Nothing in this world can chase away the cold terror inside of him, the line of fear that splits open his chest, laying bare to the world the missing bones and heart.

In the day, he tries the old games: giving names to clouds, making them act out a story. He tries to close his eyes, focus on the house, but he cannot move the space like he used to. Even the walls of this cottage are solid, holding him in when he'd prefer to flee.

Remember, he thinks: running barefoot over these fields, swimming in the cold creek even as his teeth chattered. But he remains trapped here, watching the blue sky fade to grey and then open up, rain pouring onto old stone slabs that once served as the floor.

+

He hears voices on the eighth day, body unfurling from its tight curl by the old and empty fireplace. George and Annie are here, close enough that he can hear them, and he wants to call out, to tell that he's trapped, but he opens his mouth and no sound comes out. He grits his teeth, thinks of how weak he is, and maybe it would be better if they were rid of him, if he just let them get on with their lives—

'Mitchell.'

George's voice is soft, quiet, and he's crossing over the floor to drop in a crouch next to Mitchell. He wonders how bad he looks, the concern slipping over George's face as easily as a mask but a thousand times more real.

'We've been looking for you,' George says. 'I thought we agreed – we were going to share the house.'

'I tried to leave,' Mitchell says, 'But I can't. I needed somewhere quiet, so I came here, but then I couldn't leave.'

George nods, slips down on the ground next to Mitchell, puts an arm around him. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Driving his teeth into his lip, Mitchell shakes his head. He would like to say something insightful, something short and painful, but filled with grace, something that explains the mess in his head without having to admit it's part of him. He would like to explain that sometimes the war takes over, that he sometimes loses himself, but without having to own up to it all. How does he explain those fields of death to people who have never seen the horrors, the great destruction of the world. The scars go deep in him, in the land, but they are forgotten now by everyone else.

'Mitchell?' Annie's there now, standing in the doorway, and he squeezes his eyes shut to avoid seeing that look of concern written starkly across her face.

'Let's not talk about it. Let's just not talk.'

'All right,' George says, quietly, and Annie's crossing over, wrapping her arms around him and George easily, and it's not okay, it's not going to be okay, but for a moment it seems bearable.


End file.
